Page 4 of On Your Life

She sounds like she smokes six packs a day. Can they even smoke in here?

The woman standing outside my cell has long silver hair pulled into a loose bun, deep wrinkles are carved around her eyes, and a navy blue uniform hangs loosely off her tiny frame. She has to be pushing sixty. She doesn't look like she would hurt a fly. What could she have possibly done to land herself in a place like this?

And why the hell does she get a nicer uniform?

I have never liked jumpsuits and it’s like I can’t escape them. Plus, orange isn’t really my color. Her words finally land and I guess I need to respond to make a good impression.

“Killer?” I say.

The word tastes vile coming out of my mouth.

“You’re the one that killed that CO right?” she asks, arching a paper-thin eyebrow.

Something tells me she definitely knows everything that goes on around here. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, or the pure fact that she waltzed in here to greet me like a new child that showed up on her doorstep.

“What?”

I didn’t realize I would also have to learn prison lingo while trying to survive here. The county jail was hard enough. My roommate was there for a traffic violation. She acted like I might attack her in her sleep.

Every single night she’d shove her shoes beneath her pillow before climbing into bed. Like they’d magically become deadly weapons if I decided to murder her in her sleep.

“Corrections officer,” she explains. “He was a rat bastard. Always bringing in drugs to trade off for blowies from the addicts.” Her eyes travel from the top of my head to my cheap rubber shoes. “You don’t look like a killer.”

“I’m not,” I sigh. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t belong here.”

She coughs out a laugh that sounds borderline painful.

“Everyone says that but it’s hardly ever true dear.” She leans against the doorway. “But you?” Her lips tug into a crooked smile. “You’re quite the topic of conversation this morning. Our own little prison celebrity.”

Heat creeps up my neck and floods my face. I’m not sure if it’s anger or fear clawing its way to the surface but I feel genuinely uncomfortable. Maybe it’s both.

“If you need anything at all, you come find me. My name’s Barbara, I’m the head of this pod.” She pauses outside the doorway. “But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble, like I said the guy was a piece of shit.”

She turns and disappears as fast as she came. Somehow I’m even more confused than before. I don’t want whispers following me down halls or strangers deciding who I am before I even open my mouth. I don’t want to be some prison celebrity. I just want to be me. Boring old me in my boring old life.

It feels like the noose is getting tighter and tighter around my neck.

What am I going to do?

***

I have scrubbed every touchable surface with the sticky soap and toilet paper. My shitty excuse for toiletries are lining the small window sill and somehow that little strip of order makes it feel like I can finally breathe. The cell doesn’t feel quite as much like a biohazard bin anymore.

Well, almost. There’s a lingering smell of something metallic and I hope it’s just the metal furnishings and not some stranger’s blood coating the crevices that I can’t reach.

A loud whistle blows outside of the room and I walk over to the doorway.

“Count!” someone yells.

The word bounces around my cell like a bell. People begin filing out of rooms and pushing away from their tables around the common area. Everyone falls into place beside their doorways without hesitation. I follow suit because I’ll be damned if I get myself in trouble in here too.

A guard walks past each cell, clicking something in his hand every time he passes by someone. His uniform hugs him in all the right places. You can tell he obsessively works out by the way his sleeves strain around his biceps, one wrong move and the seams will surrender.

The black fabric highlights the mountain of muscle throughout his shoulders and back when the light hits it just right. Exactly the kind of man I would have happily dropped to my knees for outside of these concrete walls.

Unfortunately, his demeanor is anything but friendly. Everything about him screams to stay the fuck away. The closer he gets, the colder the air feels. An overwhelming urge crawls up my spine, begging me to climb back into my bunk and disappear beneath the cover.

His eyes lock onto mine. The look on his face is nothing short of hatred—pure unfiltered disgust. His jaw flexes so hard I swear I can see the muscles twitch beneath his skin. If looks could kill I would have been dead about three steps ago. He stops directly in front of me.